From the station square the mark set off into the centre and circled around in the city for quite a long time. On several occasions he suddenly stopped his cabby right there in the middle of a street and let him go, but he failed to shake off the superbly organised surveillance.
Shortly after seven o’clock in the evening, he entered a cab drivers’ inn close to Kaluga Square. Since he had spent the previous hour hiding in the gateway of the next building, he had to have an appointment here, and this was an opportunity that must not be missed.
As soon as the mark entered the inn (that happened at nine minutes past seven), Mylnikov summoned the Flying Brigade’s special carriage with his whistle. This carriage was a highly convenient innovation in modern detective work: it contained a selection of costumes and items of disguise to suit every possible occasion.
The engineer and the court counsellor dressed up as cabbies and staggered unsteadily into the tavern.
After casting an eye round the dark room, Evstratii Pavlovich pretended that he couldn’t stay on his feet and collapsed on the floor. When Fandorin leaned down over him he whispered:
‘That’s Lagin with him. Codename Thrush. An SR. Extremely dangerous. How about that…’
The important point had been established, so rather than loiter in the tavern in open view, they allowed themselves to be thrown out in the street.
After stationing four agents at the back entrance, they hurriedly discussed their alarming discovery.
‘Our agents abroad inform us that Colonel Akashi, the senior Japanese foreign agent, is meeting with political émigrés and buying large deliveries of weapons,’ Mylnikov whispered, leaning down from the coach box of his government carriage. ‘But that’s a long way off, in places liked Paris and London, and this is old mother Moscow. We couldn’t have slipped up there, surely? Give the local loudmouths Japanese rifles, and we’ll have real trouble…’
Erast Petrovich listened with his teeth gritted. Provoking a revolution in the enemy’s rear – a démarche unheard of in the practice of war in Europe – was a hundred times more dangerous than any bombs on railway lines. It threatened not just the outcome of the military campaign, but the fate of the Russian state as a whole. The warriors of the Land of Yamato knew what real war was: there were no means that were impermissible, there was only defeat or victory. How the Japanese had changed in a quarter of a century!
‘The **** Asian ***s!’ Mylnikov cursed obscenely, as if he had overheard Fandorin’s thoughts. ‘There’s nothing holy! How do you fight bastards like that?’
But was this not what Andrei Bolkonsky was talking about before the Battle of Borodino, the engineer objected – not out loud to Mylnikov, naturally, but to himself. Chivalry and war practised by the rules are stupid nonsense, according to the most attractive character in the whole of Russian literature. Kill prisoners, do not negotiate. No indulging noble sentiments. War is not amusement.
But even so, the side that indulges noble sentiments is the one that will win, Fandorin suddenly thought, but before he could follow this paradoxical idea through to its conclusion, the agent stationed by the door gave the signal, and he had to clamber up on to his coach box at the double.
The shop hand came out alone. He looked at the line of cabs (every last one belonging to the Okhrana), but didn’t take one. He walked away some distance and stopped a passing cabby – another false one, naturally.
But in the end all of Mylnikov’s cunning was wasted. In some incomprehensible manner, the mark disappeared from the carriage. The detective impersonating the driver did not notice when and how this happened: first there was a passenger, and then there wasn’t – just a crumpled rouble note lying on the seat in mockery.
This was annoying, but not fatal.
First, there was still the SR Lagin, alias Thrush – they had a man in his inner circle. And secondly, near the left luggage office, an ambush was set up, for which Fandorin had especially high hopes, since the arrangements were made through the Railway Gendarmerie, without Mylnikov involved.
The clerk was given a thoroughly detailed briefing by the engineer. As soon as the ‘shop hand’ appeared, or anyone else came to present the familiar receipts, he was to press a button that had been installed specially. A lamp would go on in the next room, where a squad was waiting, and the officer in charge would immediately telephone Fandorin, and then, depending on his orders, either make an arrest or continue secret surveillance (through an eyehole) until plainclothes agents arrived. And. of course, the clerk would make sure the luggage was not given out too quickly.
‘Now we’ve got the slanty-eyed macaque like this,’ Mylnikov gloated, grabbing a tight fistful of air in his strong fingers.
The seventh syllable, in which it emerges that not all Russians love Pushkin
A few days before the long-awaited 25 May, the Moscow life of Vasilii Alexandrovich Rybnikov was punctuated by an episode that may appear insignificant in comparison with subsequent events, but not to mention it at all would amount to dishonesty.
It happened during the period when the fugitive staff captain was languishing in the tormenting embrace of idleness, which, as already mentioned above, even led him to commit certain acts rather uncharacteristic of him.
In one of his idle moments, he visited the Address Bureau located on Gnezdnikovsky Lane and started making enquiries about a certain person in whom he was interested.
Rybnikov did not even think of buying a two-kopeck request form; instead he demonstrated his knowledge of psychology by engaging the clerk in soulful conversation, explaining that he was trying to find an old army comrade of his deceased father. He had lost sight of this man a long time ago and understood perfectly well what a difficult task it was, so he was willing to pay for the all the work involved at a special rate.
‘Without a receipt?’ the clerk enquired, raising himself slightly above the counter to make sure that there were no other customers in the premises.
‘Why, naturally. What use would it be to me?’ The expression in the staff captain’s yellowish-brown eyes was imploring and his fingers casually twirled a rather thick-looking wallet. ‘Only it’s not likely that this man is living in Moscow at present.’
‘That’s all right, sir. Since it will be a special rate, it’s quite all right. If your acquaintance is still in government service, I have lists of all the departments. If he is retired, then, of course, it will be difficult…’
‘He’s still in service, he is!’ Rybnikov assured the clerk. ‘And with a high rank. Perhaps even the equivalent of a general. He and my late father were in the Diplomatic Corps, but I heard that before that he was with the Police Department or, perhaps, the Gendarmes Corps. Perhaps he could have gone back to his old job?’ He delicately placed two paper roubles on the counter.
The clerk took the money and declared cheerfully:
‘It often happens that diplomats are transferred to the gendarmes and then back again. That’s government service for you. In what name does he rejoice? What is his age?’
‘Erast Fandorin. Fan-dor-in. He must be about forty-eight or forty-nine now. I was informed that he resides in St Petersburg, but that is not definite.’
The address wizard rummaged through his plump, tattered books for a long time. Every now and then he declared:
‘No one by that name listed with the ministry of foreign affairs… Not with Gendarmes Corps HQ… Not with the Railway Gendarmerie… At the ministry of internal affairs they have a Ferendiukin, Fedul Kharitonovich, director of the Detective Police Material Evidence Depot. Not him?’
Rybnikov shook his head.
‘Maybe you could look in Moscow? I recall that Mr Fandorin was a native Muscovite and resided here for a long period.’